The Way of the World
by ruby gillis
Summary: Susan Baker dies, leaving Shirley Blythe a legacy that will change his life...and Una Meredith's. A rewrite, please read and review.
1. Susan Remembers

_So would I softly,  
Day long, night long,  
Change my sorrow  
Into song.  
-**Sarah Teasdale**_

Susan Baker died just as she had lived—cleanly, with no fuss. But before she did, she spent one last, bright-hued, wondrous autumn afternoon on the veranda at Ingleside. All seasons were kind to Ingleside – in winter it was a haven or warmth – in summer little breezes blew about it – in spring it teemed with growing things. But of all the seasons, autumn was loveliest, for Ingleside wore its crimson and gold splendor like a cloak of valor.

It was not long since Susan had grudgingly given up her post at the kitchen stove, and she was not used to being idle. She did not 'tie to' it, but the doctor and Mrs. Blythe were adamant. They would not have her tiring her heart by working after them all as she had done for so many years. Now she must rest.

But to-day, Susan did not mind a brief respite on the wide, shady verandah. She was usually not one to notice how blue was the harbor, seen through leaves of maples that were just beginning to be touched with autumnal glory, or how lovely the little clouds that scuttled proudly across the sky like flagships. She did not often let the scent of last late-summer roses touch her soul. But she did to-day, and held these things close to her heart.

For a moment she thought she could hear the sounds of the children playing in Rainbow Valley—of course that was impossible, the Ingleside children were not children any longer and were scattered across the globe—but Susan _did_ hear them.

There was Jem's war-whoop—Little Jem, the baby of the House of Dreams. Susan felt she could see him plainly, with his unruly reddish curls and the look of mischief that was always on his face. She heard Shirley's whistle—her little brown boy, the dearest of them all—and the mysterious whispered secret language of Nan and Di, the incongruous Ingleside twins. She saw Nan's flower-like face, and Di's sweet, freckled one. Young Rilla, with her crinkled eyes and infectious smile was calling to be included with the rest of them.

Susan saw Walter's pensive face and heard his soft laugh, and could not stop her mind from roaming backward to the time when little white Joyce was lost. At least she would see them soon. That was a great consolation to her. Susan Baker, beloved by the house of Blythe, closed her eyes and never opened them again.

Dr. Gilbert Blythe found her there, in the old rocker, with a tiny smile on her face, and her hands crossed on her breast. Time and experience had taught him that this was no look worn by any earthly mortal. It was as if Susan was remembering a fond secret. The doctor, with tears in his eyes, was glad that death had come to her as a friend. This good woman, who had cradled his children to her breast and kissed and soothed their bumps and bruises – who had fed them and clothed them and looked after them – who had loved the Blythes as fiercely as they loved her -- who was such a part of Ingleside life that the place was stepped in the essence of her – she had "crossed the bar," and they all must follow her, one day.

"A good woman – a good woman," said Dr. Blythe, and went in to break the news to his wife.


	2. Anne Remembers

Too many times, it seemed, Anne Blythe had sat out in the garden as she was now to think of days gone by and loved ones gone to the place where all men must go. But it comforted her to think that Susan was not gone, just as it comforted her to think that others as well-loved could not really be forgotten. Surely, now, Susan was a part of the lovely golden afternoon spread out over the harbour like a delight – part of the little yellow roses that had burst into bloom on the bush to-day quite out of season – and it must be her spirit that came up from the bay and rustled the tip-tops of the fir trees, gently – oh, how gently! Susan had always loved those trees in her way. And most prosaically, her legacy lived on in the calceolarias that staunchly blossomed in the shade of the porch.

There were times when "Mrs. Dr. Blythe" strongly suspected she hadn't grown up—like now, for instance. Looking out over the gorgeous PEI sunset made her wish she had wings to fly up and around in the splendid burst of sun-rays – made her want to soar over treetops and rooftops to the very edge of the sea. Anne sighed, and laughed, and sighed again. She was a mother— and grandmother—but at times she felt just like the small, redheaded orphan that she had been when she first came to Green Gables.

But here was Mrs. Rev. Meredith coming up the walk—Anne stood to welcome her, holding out her hands.

"Wasn't it a beautiful funeral service?" said Rosemary, clasping them. She was still golden and beautiful herself, and settled herself down on the veranda steps. "I feel sure that Susan would have liked it— dear Susan."

"She would have loved it," said Anne with conviction. "You know she always enjoyed hearing Reverend Meredith preach. There never was a minister like him in the Glen –"not in all her days," she always said. But oh, how lonesome I am with out Susan—and Miss Cornelia. When Miss Cornelia died last year, Susan said we would soon fall to fighting to break the monotony of it all. But we never had a fight—not one. We were always in perfect harmony. I cannot imagine what I shall do without Susan's company—what we all will do without her."

"How are the children taking it?" asked Rosemary concernedly. Anne gave an impish smile. Those "children" were grown up—some with children of their own. 

"They are sad, of course," said Anne slowly. "But they are glad Susan is at peace—she had so many problems with her heart this last year—and they couldn't bear to think of her being in any pain. I know Susan would have wanted it this way – she couldn't bear to languish about the place. She was afraid of being a burden on us. When that was the last thing she would ever be to us!"

"Faith was devastated that she and Jem and the children could not come home for the funeral," remarked Rosemary.

"I wrote to Jem and Faith in Hawaii," said Anne with a sigh. "Hawaii! I shall never get used to 'my baby' being half a world away. But I am proud of the work he and Faith are doing at the missionary hospital. Jem saves so many people every day—he is a full-fledged doctor now—and of course he wanted to make his own diagnosis on Susan's condition, so his letter back was full of medical-ese. And Di and Jack were up today from Avonlea, but they had to go back down tonight. Although I would have loved to have them stay. Di was my last little girl to be at home, you know, and I miss her terribly now that she is gone."

"It was wonderful when she married Jack Wright," breathed Rosemary. "Like something out of a fairy-tale."

"It _is_ wonderful," said Anne, eyes aglow. "Now there are two Diana Wrights in Avonlea. Diana and I always hoped there would be a match among our children—but most of _mine_ seemed smitten with _yours_." 

Rosemary laughed. "We're beginning to be like the Darks and Penhallows over in Rose River. Soon we won't be fit to marry anyone else. And oh – I've heard some news today! Is it true that Nan is expecting a baby in the spring?"

"It is true," said Anne. "And she and Jerry are beside themselves with joy. Nan says she wants a boy, so it can be just like Jerry, and Jerry wants a girl, to be just like Nan. They are wildly, madly in love with each other—but I think they're preferred way of showing it is by arguing."

"But it's friendly arguing, at least," Rosemary said. "Speaking of babies, your Rilla has the most delicious little boy. I saw him today at the funeral—it was so hard to be solemn when little Gilbert Ford was sending those big grins all over the church. I just had to smile back. I'm sure Kitty Alec thought it was quite irreverent, considering the occasion."

"Little Gilbert doesn't look anything like either Rilla or Ken," said Anne with a laugh. "_Or_ his namesake! Though he hasn't escaped my red hair. But he is a handsome child—he will wear it well. I rather think he looks like his Aunt Persis."

"Persis is the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on," said Rosemary. "Carl is head over heels for her. I've never seen two happier people—they're excruciatingly happy. Even for newlyweds. But oh – with Carl away in Montreal – and little Bruce starting at Queens – our house will be so desolate! It is just me and Una and Rev. Meredith now. I thought Persis might consent to staying in the Glen but I think she needs a bit more excitement than our 'provincial' way of life. But they have promised to come back for every summer."

"Do you know, I always hoped that Shirley would take a fancy to Persis Ford," laughed Anne. "How I wanted one of my brood to marry one of Leslie's—I felt like that would really make us family, although we are already sisters of the heart. But I suppose my wish was granted with Rilla and Ken. Although I do worry about Shirley sometimes. He is the last of my brood at home—and I will be so sad to see him go—but he does not seem as happy as he should be. The war has changed him—it changed all of us, but Shirley seems to be more prone to bouts of brooding than ever."

"How did he react to Susan—?"

"Oh, he took it all in stride. Shirley is the quiet, deep sort who keeps all his feelings bottled up. He turned very white when we told him and said, 'Susan—_not_ Mother Susan!' You know he was always her especial favorite—and he loved her very dearly. _And_ Susan left him quite a legacy."

"Did she!" cried Rosemary in surprise.

"Yes," nodded Anne, turning up the corners of her mouth. "Susan Baker left Shirley Blythe a sum of one thousand dollars—she left something to all of the children, but Shirley got most of it—_but_ he only gets it when he is married! Susan was so eager for him to be married—although she thought no one was good enough for her 'little brown boy.' If he decides not to take it, it will go to the church. I don't think he will take it. Gilbert says Shirley is going to be a confirmed old bachelor. Oh, but there's supposed to be one in every family. And I see Una's gotten her hair bobbed?"

This might seem like an abrupt turn in the conversation, but Una Meredith had just come sauntering through the trees on her way to Rainbow Valley. She stopped a moment to talk with Mrs. Blythe and her step-mother. The bob suited her – her neck looked long and swanlike, and it showed off her strong shoulders which were like alabaster above her dress. Una was wearing a dress of midnight blue crepe, and with her tousled black hair and pale skin, she looked just like a shaft of moonlight spilling through an open window. Her face was troubled, and she was quieter than usual. The older woman saw that she was quick to be on her way, and did not detain her for very long.

"Una's been quiet all week," said Rosemary pensively. "She always gets very blue around this time of year."

The mistress of Ingleside was quiet for a moment. There was always a certain pang in her own heart around the second week in September—when the maples began to turn, she could not help but think of her dear lost boy who had loved the blazing colors of autumnal glory—who would never see them again. She could not stop her mind from wandering back over the years—she suddenly saw before her that dear lad with his black hair and white face and eyes full of dreams and questions.

And now he, Walter, would sleep forever under foreign soil, so far away from the home he had loved best of any place on earth. Anne remembered how Una Meredith's face had always softened under his gray-eyed gaze—even in the shadow of her own grief she remembered how Una had trembled and had not cried out when she had heard the news. Anne had been sick with the loss of her child, but Una had had the stricken look of a woman stripped of a dream of love. And the wistful look on her face now when someone mentioned Walter – just the mention of his name could make her blue eyes widen as if she had been shaken – terribly shaken. Yes, Anne thought, she knew what might make Una so blue—especially at this time of year.


	3. Una Remembers

Anne was right— Una was thinking of Walter. Could he have been gone for four years, now? Una could scarcely believe it. She expected to see him as she walked in Rainbow Valley, sprawled under a tree, languid, immersed in a book, or taking in the beauty around him. It seemed impossible that he should be dead.

If he was dead, she was, too. There was a piece of her soul that had been killed by the same bullet that struck Walter at Courcelette. He had been a son – a brother – a friend – but to Una he could have unlocked worlds of love. If only she had told him! If only he had lived!

Her letters to him had always been prim, lady-like epistles and his had been friendly and dreamy and wonderful but they had never hinted at anything more. Walter had loved Faith, and Faith and Una were as different as two sisters could be. It never occurred to Una that Walter might have loved her, but sometimes when she remembered a fleeting glance given or a line written in a particular letter, she thought he might have been _fond_ of her. She knew that he would have grown to love her if he had lived – oh, if he had only lived!

How she had dreamed about him, for so long! Una had set so much by those dreams these past years that she was a little afraid. But – it scared her even more to think that she should give those dreams up. She read somewhere that the war had created a 'lost generation' – and Una felt as though she had been caught up in it, floating aimlessly and adrift. Wouldn't someone ever _find_ her? But then – she wasn't entirely sure that she wanted to be found.

She sat down by the little brook and listened to the Tree Lovers waving their fairy bells on the breeze. The name of Walter Blythe was not forgotten. Jem and Faith had given his name to their little son, and shortly after Walter's death, Di, his 'twin of the heart,' had gone through his papers and put together a compilation of his works, including his famous war-poem, 'The Piper.' It was a only thin little book, but published and taught in universities throughout Canada—and read and loved by people the world over. A short, elfin, bewitching book of poetry. Una knew each verse in it by heart.

Her favorite lines in it were:

_Her eyes of lovely steadfastness_

_Were lovely pools of midnight blue…_

She had read them over and over again, weighing each word heavily. Could Walter have written those lines about her? Una's eyes fit that description exactly.

She gave a little sigh. The others had laughter and love in their lives—and children, and homes together that were full of joy—sometimes sadness, but mostly joy. Una had those two lines, that may or may not have been written about her, and a faded, folded letter given to her by Rilla Blythe, written in Walter's hand. It seemed so—little.

Una leaned over to see her face in the rippling brook that ran through the edge of Rainbow Valley. It was a fascinating face, though not beautiful—with white, white skin and a little rosebud mouth, and fine black brows like little wings of soot over eyes just as steadfast and unwavering as Walter's poem described—if indeed, he was describing her eyes. No one could know for sure, now. It was a mystery lost to man. Una knew she did not look twenty-five—but oh, only last week how condescending Irene Howard had been in Carter Flagg's shop. "I suppose you're going to be one of those 'career women,'" she had said. When she knew that Una had no career! She meant that Una was becoming an old maid.

Una had a reputation for sweetness and goodness—she was not a laughing, fun girl like Faith, or blithe like Rilla, or strident and confident like Nan. But she had taken her course in Domestic Science and could plan a menu and make pasty as light as a cloud. There were plenty of men in the Glen or Four Winds that would have her, if she wanted! But Una did not want. The only man she had ever loved—ever could love—was sleeping as soundly as man can sleep, thousands of miles away, never to wake.

"I feel so old," Una said piteously, at that moment looking especially young and vulnerable. 

She would not allow anyone to know what she had felt for Walter. Rilla knew, of course, but Una had kept her from knowing the true depth of her feelings. She caught Mrs. Blythe looking at her with great pity and tenderness betimes, but Una would not let Mrs. Blythe pity her. She had no right to mourn, or grieve, so she did not. She helped Rosemary around the manse, and wrote long letters to little Bruce at Queens. Una thought fleetingly sometimes about going overseas to work in the missions like Faith – but it would hurt too much to be away from home. And so she had taken an active role in the church instead. She taught Sunday school. There were flowers from 'Una's garden' on the altar every week. Such lilies and peonies and tea roses! Not even Mrs. Blythe could grow tea roses like Una—fragrant, perfect, pristine little white blossoms.

She did a lot of things. The Rev. Meredith referred to her as his "stalwart," and Rosemary asked—often—how could they get along without Una? She did so much, for everyone.

"But there is one thing I will not do," Una vowed passionately, as she did at this time and this place every year. "I will never forget _you_, Walter."


	4. Shirley's Proposal

Una wended her way home through the growing dusk, lost in her thoughts. The sun had finally completed its slow journey into the bay and a clear, cloudless night had fallen. The stars were beginning to come out and the moon shown like a golden beacon in the sky. It cast enough light for everything to be seen about her. The tang of dying things was in the air, and on the way home Una was surrounded by ghosts of things that might-have-been.

She met Shirley Blythe on the lane to the manse, and greeted him companionably. Oh – Una considered Shirley prosy by daylight – but by moonlight he was touched with a shade of poetry, as all prosy things are. There was just a hint of sadness on his face that had not been there in auld lang syne. Una did not like to think of Shirley being sad, but she felt now that they understood each other more than they had in the days before the war, when Shirley had been another jolly, roguish chap.

But they had always been good friends, and, each the quietest member of a boisterous clan, they were often thrown together. Shirley silently offered Una his arm now, and she took it, without a word.

Una thought now, as she had so many times before, that she really could not have lived through these past years without Shirley. Why – he made life _bearable_. He did not pester her like the others – though they meant well. But someone always wanted to know Una's plans – her hopes – what she was going to do with herself – and Shirley did not ask her. He was contented to let her be, and at the times when the grey fog threatened to envelop her completely, there was Shirley coming through it to take her on a moon spree and the fog suddenly lifted. How did he always know when to come? Yes – Una was thankful for Shirley. His friendship and companionship were so _dear_ to her.

They shared a comfortable silence as they walked toward the manse. Una's thoughts were very troubled, but her face was serene, and Shirley looked at her with admiration, appreciating those long lashes over carefully hidden blue eyes—that smooth, sleek bob—that long, white neck. What a pretty, womanly thing she was! Like a dusky, romantic little pansy.

Of course Shirley was always quiet, but to-night Una felt that he was bordering on melancholy.

"You are thinking – of Susan?" she asked.

Shirley nodded, his face turned toward the shadows. Una put her thin white hand on his shoulder. Her eyes told him that he might tell her anything.

"It seems ridiculous that she should be gone. The house is so quiet without Susan – Mother Susan. Susan _was_ another mother to me, you know. It seems such a long time since I've told her I loved her – she grew to be a habit with me – if only I had gotten the chance to tell her once more!"

If only – if only so many people had gotten that chance! How crowded with love the world would be – or perhaps crowded with heartbreak. For all that loved could certainly not be loved back – not in the same way. Could they?

Shirley told Una of Susan's legacy then and his words seemed to whirl about her. One thousand dollars! Shirley wanted to use it to buy a farm – but he would only get it if he was married! If he was _married_! And here was Shirley telling her that he would take it.

A queer sort of feeling began to grow in Una's chest. She could not put a name to it but it was not the pleasantest of feelings. "Who are you going to marry, Shirley?"

A while ago there had been a rumour, a hideous rumour, that Shirley would marry Irene Howard. There is a woman like Irene in every village – a woman who persists in being treated like a _girl_ – who is jealous of all other girls – who feels big only when she makes others feel small. People had believed that Shirley would marry Irene but Una had never thought he would. Something like a small white flame of truth in her chest told her that Shirley – friend Shirley – would never do _that_. But – perhaps she had been wrong? Una told herself it was only curiosity that made her heart beat so.

Here was Shirley facing her now – taking her hand in his own – why, what was he doing now? Una thought for a reckless moment that Shirley was going to bring her little hand to his lips – but he only held it to his chest.

"I thought," he said, "That I'd marry you – if you will have me."

And here was the moment that Una had hoped would not happen. For some time – mostly on clear, cloudless nights like this one – Una had suspected that Shirley loved her. Not in the dear, friendly way that she loved him – but that he _loved_ her. When daylight came again he was the same friendly Shirley once more and Una told herself that she must be mistaken. But now, by the light of the moon, there was no mistaking it.

"Una, why don't you marry me?" Shirley's hand was very rough—from working outdoors—and so was his voice when he spoke. It betrayed no hint of the emotion he had carried with him since his boyhood—the feelings that had sustained him through the horrors of the war—the hopes that had kept his faith alive. Una did not know that he was giving life to a dream that he had always imagined would remain just that—a dream. And perhaps it would not be a _dream_ any longer!

But if Shirley's voice betrayed him not, his face did. Una took her hand away.

"This is – ridiculous," she said. "This is about – Susan's money?"

"It isn't. I have always loved you, Una," he said, and they were the truest words she had ever heard spoken. "I never asked before because I know that you—that you don't love me. But I thought—if I had the money, I could—make you happy. You won't regret it if you marry me, Una."

He began to tell her something of his rainbow dreams for the future, there in the garden of the little manse – the neat, dear little garden that Una so carefully tended. The smell of late-summer roses was heavy in the air around them. Shirley painted a picture for her with his words – a very dear picture. A house somewhere near to the Glen – close enough to the sea to be wild on stormy nights – a roaring hearth fire. Some place full of charm and allure and history, but with enough room for future dreams. It really was a wonderful picture— but the dearest thing about it to Shirley would be the little, dark-haired wife within that would make the house come alive.

A strange thing happened to Una as he spoke. She began to feel as though she _could_ marry Shirley – that she could let herself be carried away on his current of love and find out to what new lands it would take her. She could be his wife – and live with him – and she would love him, in her own way. But Shirley must understand that she could not love him in the way that he loved her.

"I will never be able to love you like _that_," she told him, so there would be no secrets between them.

Shirley nodded. "I understand, dear. Although, perhaps in time—"

"No!" cried Una. "I _can't_ love you in that way, Shirley! I do love you a great deal – only not in the way you've hoped."

"That is fine," Shirley said staunchly. "I shall be contented just loving _you_."

Una felt her head begin to whirl. Could this really be happening? Could she really change the path of her life with a few well-chosen words? And then Shirley stepped closer and looked at her beseechingly. "Say you will." And Una found that the words she had been prepared to say had gone from her. She could not say no.

But she could not say yes, either. "I can't tell you now, Shirley," she choked. "Oh – I will tell you – I will give you my answer tomorrow!"

She ran up the steps and into the house, shutting the door behind her, and leaving Shirley alone in the garden with the night.


	5. A White Night and a Decision

Una spent a white night walking up and down the floor of her room. Rev. and Mrs. Meredith had been surprised at how pale and quiet she was during supper. There were purple shadows under her eyes and her brows were drawn together, eyes anguished. Still Una did not forget to do her duty. She ate her supper like a good girl and helped Rosemary wash and dry the dishes. And then she fled to her bedchamber and locked the door.

It was the first time any door in the manse had been locked against its other inhabitants. The sweet little bed-room over the stairs had always been sacred to little, feminine dreams. There had never been anything so dire as to warrant a locking of the door. How _many_ nights Una had laid in bed and listened to Faith's whispered secrets! Sometimes she had even shared her own. But now Faith was gone. The boys' room down the hall was dark and closed as well. For the first time, the flower-papered walls of the room seemed to close in on her, and Una thought she could not bear it. She would scream! But she did not. She gave a little cry but it was taken from her lips by the wind.

She walked up and down the floor – up and down the floor. Oh, how easy it would be to marry Shirley! How she would like to be a wife – to have a house of her own! Una was not ever mistreated by her friends. But only sometimes little mindless comments stung her.

For instance, when Nan bragged about her little home. The Lowbridge manse was a charming house. One could not fault Nan for being so pleased with it. Only when Nan had cried, "Oh, I pity girls who do not have a home of their own!" it had stung Una deeply. Una did not begrudge Nan her little house but it _did_ sting! Una had dismissed it at the time. Nan would have rather died than make Una feel insignificant. It was a thoughtless remark, not meant to be cruel. But it cut Una deeply, now, to think of it.

Worse somehow were Faith's cheery letters. She was so fond of writing of her family and adding little side-notes – "When _you_ get married, darling Una" – "When _you_ have children of your own, dearest Una!" Faith meant her words to be optimistic, of course, but they only served now to remind Una of the widening gulf between her own lonely life and her sister's fulfilled womanhood.

And others were not so nice. "We're not as young as we once were," Mary Vance was fond of saying with a sidelong glance. Kitty Alec never refrained from asking Una her age every time she saw her. Last time had been a week after her birthday and Una had almost choked when she had to say, "Twenty-five." Twenty-five! Twenty-five was a quarter of a century! Why, Mother had had Jerry and Faith and Una by the time she was twenty-five.

If she was to marry Shirley, no one could ever ask her how old she was again with that certain look of eye, that question expressed in the corners of the mouth. Una would gladly listen to every other girl on the planet talk about her home – as long as she had one of her own!

And – and it would make Shirley so happy. He loved her. Una knew that. Perhaps – perhaps he felt toward her the way she had always felt toward Walter. It would be – so nice – to make someone else happy. Una loved Shirley – he _was_ dear to her – and she did so want him to be happy.

But just when Una thought she had convinced herself she wavered. Oh, she had kept true to her lost love for so long! How could she deny it now? She felt sick with herself for even thinking that she could! Una went on like this into the wee hours, pacing her pretty, rose-patterned carpet as the manse grew silent and dark and fell into sleep.

At three o'clock in the morning – the most desperate, lonely hour of the night – Una went to the drawer of her writing table and took out a piece of folded paper from between the leaves of a poetry-book. It was a letter. She read it over and replaced it, and then she went and knelt down before her open window.

A rainshower had come up suddenly in the night and passed just as quickly, leaving a clean new world and a cool little breeze. Una let the night breeze wash over her, ruffling her hair. She was baptized by it, and knew at once what she must do. She set her little white teeth and clasped her hands. She made her decision – for better or for worse. And then finally, at long last, sleep mercifully came.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The rain had gone by sunrise, but the world was still cool and grey when Una awoke. She managed somehow to get through the day – though it was difficult. She found her hands shook when she did her sewing and she dropped and smashed one of Rosemary's pink lustre cups. Rosemary did not care about the cup but she looked at Una sharply when the girl apologized through white lips. Why, what ever on earth could have made her look so pale and stricken?

After supper Una excused herself and went upstairs to dress. She felt as though she must put some effort into her appearance. Especially when she was going to do what she had to do. But it was hard to muster much enthusiasm. Una had always loved her pretty dresses and usually spent much time lovingly choosing her apparel. Tonight she put on the first dress she could find – an old black crepe. She felt it suited her mood.

She did not know that she looked like an alluring white moth in it. Shirley thought so as he watched her come over the hill and down to Rainbow Valley. Her skin was so very paleS! The dress had a round neck and it showed off her fine shoulders. He gloated over her in the gathering dusk. And then Una was before him, wan and trembling.

"Have you made your decision?" Shirley asked her gently.

Una looked up at him, a bruised flower.

"Shirley," she pleaded. "If I – say – no – we will still be able to have our lovely walks – and talks – together. Won't we? We will still always be the very best of friends?"

"Of course," said Shirley, but Una saw in his face that it was not true. If she were to refuse him now, it would never be the same again, never! Their lovely glow of companionship would be gone, a flame for ever blown out. Shirley would go away. He would not come to her again, and if he did it would be strained and horrible between them. All at once Una felt very bleak. How was she to fill the days – weeks, years – that stretched before her, long and lonely, without Shirley's friendship to fill them?

"I will marry you," she said hurriedly – and dully.

Shirley saw that her eyes were full of tears but he was too caught up in his own rush of sudden joy to fully comprehend what they meant. He only knew that Una, elusive Una, was to be his at last! He thought perhaps if she was not overcome with love for him she was shaken by the depths of _some_ emotion. Of course a bride-to-be should not look so tearful and sad, but now there were years ahead of him in which he could make her happy – he would – he _would_! Shirley vowed it would be so.

Shirley did not kiss her. He knew somehow that the time for kissing had not come – not yet. So he did not try to, although he wanted nothing more than to touch his lips to hers. Una thought fleetingly that he _might_ kiss her. But Shirley did not. Instead, he took Una's hand and held it in his own.

"Thank you, darling," was all he said. "You've made me very happy – the happiest man in the world."

And then they went back to Ingleside to tell their people the news.


	6. Wedding Plans

A flummox of wedding-plans followed. The folks of Ingleside and the manse were bewildered by the announcement, but they soon accustomed themselves to it. It was only so sudden! They had never suspected that Shirley – and Una! They were all very pleased, of course. The last two unmarried children of the clan – marrying each other! It was too perfect. The Blythes and Merediths threw themselves into planning with much enthusiasm, as they did all things.

Somehow without speaking, Shirley and Una had decided to play the part of young lovers before the family. They would not like the idea of a marriage without love – or where the love was one-sided. And it would look funny – as if they were doing it for Susan's money. Una gave not a whit about the money. Dr. Blythe had presented them with the bank-issued check the night before, and Una had wanted to tear it to pieces and run—oh, how she wanted to run! But Shirley's arm lightly around her waist kept her rooted in place.

Others besides Blythes and Merediths visited Una at the manse to see what this was all about. Mary Vance came up one day to talk it over. She brought with her a little noisy bundle of a Cornelia – Cornelia was Mary's little baby. Una would have liked to coo over the baby, but Mary had business to attend to. So while Mary jounced the babe on her knee, she fired question after question at Una until Una's head whirled.

"Well, I never knew that you were in love with Shirley Blythe," she said finally, and the baby yowled.

"Of course I have always been fond of him, Mary."

"Yes – I'm fond of Shirley too. But _I_ ain't marrying him." This said with a long keen look at Una. "You didn't tell _me_ you liked him especially."

"I – I didn't know it myself," said Una weakly. "I didn't see what was in front of me all along, I suppose."

"Ain't that the way of the world," marveled Mary.

Irene Howard visited another day under the pretext of offering congratulations. Silly, overdressed, overblown Irene. With a cloud of noxious perfume about her. During the interview she made several pointed little barbs that made Una want to gnash her teeth. Irene insinuated again and again that _she_ could have had Shirley if she'd wanted him. It was ridiculous of course – if Una had loved Shirley – loved him like that – Irene's cruelty would have hurt her immensely. Only now she laughed it bitterly away. It only made her feel very tired.

And Rilla met her in the garden of the manse one cool, crystal twilight. The clarity of the night almost scared Una – it was hard to keep secrets on such a night. Rilla, who had given Una Walter's dear last letter – Rilla, who was the only one to know Una's true feelings – was quite perplexed by this recent development. Una had been dreading the moment when she would have to face Rilla.

"Do you love him, Una?" she asked, a little fiercely – a little pityingly. "You mustn't marry him if you don't love him. It would be – cruel. And you mustn't marry someone you don't love!"

"Oh, go away," Una said, a little harshly. "I love him – I love him. And he loves me, and that is all that matters. Don't ask me such horrid questions!"

Rilla had taken Una at her word and gone – but not before casting at her another soul-searching glance before she went.

Shirley came up to walk with her every night, as he had always done before. Only, Una thought furiously, things between them _had_ changed anyway. Shirley could no longer hide his feelings and though he never spoke of them again Una could not help seeing that he loved her. It was in every look, every glance. She felt like a beast because she could not love him back. And when they were together she could not think of anything besides the fact that soon she would have to live with him as his wife. Everything was spoiled. She never would have promised to marry him if this is how things were going to be! But she _had_ promised, and Una would never go back on her word.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They had an engagement party at Ingleside—Nan and Jerry were there, and Rilla and Ken. Carl and Persis could not come of course – they would come for the wedding – but Di and Jack came all the way from Avonlea. Una over and over held out her hand so that they all could admire her ring. It was a single diamond, set in gold, quite the nicest ring that any girl in the Glen had. Shirley had sent to Boston to for it. It was not large, but it was beautiful – and perfect. "Like you," Shirley had told her quietly, and that had made Una's heart beat faster.

She had never before been called beautiful. She had often been compared to beautiful things – hadn't she once been called a 'tea rose?' – but this was the first time anyone had told her simply how lovely she was. Una liked that. She had never considered herself beautiful. Faith was the beautiful, womanly one. Una was sweet. She quite liked Shirley's compliments, even if she could not love Shirley himself in that way.

A wedding date was set— the last Saturday in September – two weeks hence it would all come to pass. It was to be very much a family affair. Jerry would marry them, of course, and Nan and Rosemary and Mrs. Blythe baked until the manse kitchen was bursting with food.

Rosemary came to Una in her room one evening and lovingly offered to lend Una her wedding dress and veil—Una had thought them the height of loveliness when she was young, and it had been her secret hope that she could wear them at her wedding—to Walter. She decided instead to wear her mother's old gray dress. She could not wear to marry Shirley the dress she had dreamed of wearing when she married Walter. 

Walter—was she betraying Walter? "I don't care," thought Una rebelliously. He had given her nothing except one brief, brotherly kiss before he'd gone away for ever. He had left her with no promises—no words of love—not even any hints. For the first time there was a flicker of bitterness in that old flame of love she'd kept alight for many years.


	7. Red Apple Farm

"'Let us go then, you and I' – to see the house I've bought for us," quoth Shirley one afternoon, a week before the wedding, holding out his hand to Una, who had been sitting and dreaming in the manse garden. In his excitement he quite forgot to look loving – he only looked like jolly Shirley of the days before. It was quite like the old times, and Una was suddenly excited, too. She longed to see the place she would live – her house – the house she'd so often dreamed of!

"'Let us go and make our visit,'" she quoted back with a smile, and hand in hand they went.

It was a lovable afternoon. Summer had decided to come back for a day, and so it was balmy and warm, with just a hint of Autumn's coolness waiting around the edges. A wind from the east made the waves in the harbour put on cheerful white-caps. Things seemed to be growing instead of dying. There were little clusters of wild mums here and there, edging the red road like a border of stars.

They walked a long way, almost to Four Winds. But Una did not notice. She was chatting with Shirley – pestering him with questions about her house, _their_ house – but he would not give her a hint. "You'll see soon enough." Finally they stopped at an old, wrought iron gate – an amazing, charming little gate – with the words 'Red Apple Farm' worked as a motto into it. A long lane went down between green fields on either side. Through a copse of still-leafy trees, Una could see a darling cedar-shingled roof and her heart quickened.

"I've never noticed this place before," she marveled, and Shirley smiled his old, friendly smile.

"Nor had I – it's unnoticeable unless you _want_ to notice it. And it's so far away from the main road. We will be left quite to ourselves here, Una. With just the apple trees and the sea for neighbors. Will you mind that?"

"Oh, I won't mind at all!" said Una, thinking of the thousand prying eyes and questions of the last week. "Red Apple Farm – _are_ there apple trees about the place, Shirley?"

"A whole orchard of them, in the back – we'll walk there and explore it – but first let's see the house!" They ran together down the lane, quite like the children they had once been, together.

The house was everything Una could have hoped it would be. Dear from the first instant she saw it. White clapboard below that shingled roof. A broad, sandstone porch with a white rail. Bright, cheerful red shutters, with window boxes of geraniums still blooming steadily. The windows were old fashioned and opened outwards. A vine of morning glories grew around the door.

"Shall we go in?" – and Una nodded eagerly. Shirley took the big brass key from his pocket and fitted it into the door, and opened it. Then he took Una's hand companionably and let her over the threshold and into her house.

Gleaming pine floors – a skylight in the hallway. Everything was airy and the light that came through was golden. There was a parlor and a dining room. A china cabinet to hold the apple-blossom plates that had been promised to Una by her long-dead mother. The furniture was theirs, Shirley explained, left by the house's previous owner. Una was glad. It seemed to _go_ with the house. A pile of driftwood was already laid in the fireplace for when they came to stay. There was a clock on the mantelpiece that marked the changing of the tides with bells, and a gilt-edged mirror behind that which reflected their happy, expectant faces. Window seats galore – one under every window.

"Let's see the rest," whispered Shirley – somehow this was a moment of reverence and they _had_ to whisper.

The kitchen in back ran the length of the house, with all the cupboards and cabinets any self-respecting Christian woman could wish for. A dear little pantry – and a jam-closet! A tiny bedroom off of that that must have once been the servant's quarters. From the kitchen window they could see the bay, blue and unwavering, beyond the fields sloping down to it. A cooking fireplace took up the whole west wall, and in the sandstone over it was worked,

_A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,  
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou   
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—  
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!_

Una had always loved that old verse. She ran her fingers over it and her eyes shone.

Upstairs were three more bedrooms. One in the back was especially dear. It had a bay-view from three of its windows and the other looked east onto the apple-orchard. A bed with a funny, carved headboard took up most of the room and a desk and chair and wash-stand took up the rest. There was another, little fireplace with a brass grate.

"How would you like this for _your_ room, dear?" Shirley asked. Oh, he understood! What a dear, understanding friend he was! Una nodded, eyes shining. She could dream in this room.

"This house has always been loved," Una remarked as she walked all over it once again. "Who lived here before us, Shirley?"

"Not sure," said he. "It has been vacant a long while. Isn't that funny, Una? It's not musty or dusty a bit – it seems like its old inhabitants have merely stepped out. The house is still waiting for them to come back. Can't you smell the lavender and beeswax used to clean it? _We'll_ always use lavender and beeswax to clean it, won't we? Speaking of lavender, you have your own herb garden in the back – done in the old-fashioned, English style. You'll like that, won't you?"

"Oh, yes!" Una breathed. "Let's go and see it now!"

They went down and out into their yard. The herb garden was as quaint and charming as Shirley had promised. There was a spruce-bush to the west, mysterious and gloomy. How green it would look against the snow when snows came! To the east stretched out two acres of apple-trees. Shirley spread his coat on the ground for Una to sit underneath one while he climbed up for apples. They were as red as the name of the farm promised, with a crisp, tangy, fresh taste. To eat one felt like waking up from a long nap.

They made a feast of apples from their own trees and sat together and talked as afternoon became evening.

"How much land do we have altogether?" asked Una, and her use of 'we' thrilled Shirley to his heart. But now was not the time to let her see that, and so he answered, quite casually,

"Eleven acres. Two for the orchard – one for the house and yard – and eight to farm."

"And is it good land?"

"Very good. Oh, it's hillier and sandier than one would like, of course, which is why the house was not sold for so long. But I think if one tends it carefully, and knows how to work it, he will make things grow abundantly from it. Do – do you think I can do it, Una?"

"Oh, I _know_ you can!" she cried and her eyes flashed at him with pride.

Shirley put his arm around her waist and they sat back against the trunk of one of their own apple trees. They talked over the many plans they had for the place – at that moment little habits that would become traditions with time were born between them.

"We've inherited Susan's old cream cow," Shirley laughed, "And you'll make me her famous 'apple crunch pie' every week when our apples are in season, won't you?"

"Yes, I shall coddle you as much as she did," Una laughed.

The stars came out. They had a clear view of Venus rising over the tops of the trees – Orion seemed to be striding across the distant, lapping bay-waters. For the first time, a stranger could have taken them for lovers as they sat, still, in the old orchard. Shirley kept his arm around her waist, and Una, almost perfectly content, laid her shining, moonlit black head against his shoulder.

"I think," she said in a low voice, "That I could be happy here, Shirley." It was dark, so he could not see the little smile on her face – and she could not see the hopeful look that came over his at her words.


	8. The Making Someone Happy

Una Meredith married Shirley Blythe on a cool autumn afternoon in Rainbow Valley. It was a gray late September day and the sky was like gun-metal. Una, waking to it, thought it suited her mood exactly.

The wedding was festive enough despite the threatening sky. The maple grove was ablaze with crimson splendor. There were starry mums in secret corners and the air was sweet and warm. The bells from the Tree Lovers rang on the little wandering gypsy breeze that came up from the sea and they were Una's procession march. They touched her heart as she took Shirley's hands reluctantly in her own. Walter had put the bells there. Una wondered if there was any place on earth where Walter could not reach out to her from beyond the grave to her and touch her heart.

Una wore her mother's gray silk wedding dress. It was an old-fashioned garment and a frill went around her throat while the hem hung in folds to her pretty ankles. Nan Meredith had thought it very old fashioned and drab and had offered Una the loan of her pretty, modern wedding duds. Una thanked her, but set her small white teeth in a determined smile. She would wear her mother's dress. Rosemary Meredith had said nothing, but offered her own dress that Una had once dreamed of wearing at her wedding. It hurt Una to refuse it but Una refused it now. She had always dreamed of wearing it – at her wedding to Walter. A silly, unsupported girl's-dream – but Una _could_ not wear the dress she had dreamed of wearing at her wedding to Walter when she wedded Shirley.

So she looked very pretty in the gray dress but she had not stopped once all morning to admire her appearance. Una thought it she stopped moving for a moment she would be swept away on a strong current – swept out into a sea of remembrance – and then she would scream. So she kept moving. If only this dreaded day was over! In an hour it would be done – she could get through it. Couldn't she? And then everything would be settled and Una would not have to think of it coming any more – and would not have to dread it.

Shirley thought she looked like a gray moth and was drawn to her like a flame. With the dress and her black hair, the only spot of color about her was the blood-red late roses that she held in her hand and the flaming color of her cheeks. Una thought Shirley did not look like himself in his new black suit. He was handsome – she realized this with a shock – but she thought she preferred him in his dungarees. He did not look like Shirley this way – companionable friend Shirley. He looked like someone else. And he looked so happy that Una had to look away. She could not bear to see the happiness that played across his face – not today – and not when she knew that she could not make him happy in all the ways that he wanted. She clutched her roses so fiercely that the thorns bit into her skin. But she did not cry out. The pain cut through the terrible tightness in her chest and throat and Una was able to bear it as she always had.

It was very much a family affair. Jerry married them. He gave a beautiful wedding speech that all the guests took to heart and were touched by. Una and Shirley scarcely heard what he was saying. Shirley because he was afraid to pay attention to anything except this elusive woman before him. If he took his glance from her for a second surely she would fly away and he would find it had all been a dream? Una did not hear it because her mind was wandering.

She thought back to the first time she had seen the little troupe of Blythes as they came over the hill into Rainbow Valley. Walter, his hair shining black and face dreamy – Jem, sturdy and capable – the twins holding hands. Where was Shirley? Probably in the back of the gang somewhere. Una remembered a thousand little things about Walter now – the gentle, friendly touch of his hand – the dreaminess of his mouth – the poetry in his voice – the poetry that was innate in every thing about him. She remembered that horrible day, five Septembers ago, now, when her father had come to tell them that Walter had died. That was the first day the little, horrible ache had first come to live in Una's breast. It would be there until she died herself.

From a great distance, it seemed, she heard Jerry ask Shirley if he would take Una Meredith as his wife and love and cherish her all the days he was living? Shirley said he would. Then Jerry was asking Una if she would do the same to Shirley. Una said she would, in a voice that was dull and flat. She tried to put some life in it. She could not. She wondered if she was lying now, before God? That was a sin, wasn't it? A horrible sin, to lie before God!

As Jerry gave a benediction, Una could only remember a poem that Walter had read to her once:

_There's flowers yet, though summer's flown,  
There's happiness that can be shown,  
And when you act 'tis then your own,  
Oh, make somebody happy.  
_

_The mind should see the good in men,  
Should scan each heart for virtues, then  
Give praise, and it will bloom again  
And make somebody happy.  
_

If it was a lie, it was a lie that 'made somebody happy.' Surely God would forgive her for that? But Una could not think of it any more because Jerry was pronouncing them husband and wife – and then Shirley kissed her.

It was the first time Una had ever been kissed in anything but a brotherly fashion. Shirley's arm went around her waist – strong – and he drew her to him. Shirley would spare Una the complete force of his feelings simply because he loved her and he knew she did not love him – she would not have to be a wife to him in the ways she would not want to be – but he fully intended on claiming his kiss. He had wanted it for so long, with a passion that allowed him to be selfish this once. He touched his lips to Una's own and he kissed her.

Una found her heart beating very fast. A bewildered, startled look came over her little face. Why – why should she be so startled at Shirley's kiss? And she was even more startled to find that it had not been an altogether unpleasant experience.

Shirley released her, with a look that was like another kiss, and suddenly they were all about her, shouting congratulations, shaking her hand, kissing her. Una surprised herself again by keeping her lips from them. For Shirley's kiss still seemed to be upon them. She did not know why she wanted to keep her lips for Shirley's kiss only – except that it seemed the loyal thing to do now. She was his wife, after all – his _wife_! It began to wash over her in a slow wave what she had done.

Rilla dropped a cool kiss on Una's cheek and stood back to watch her with gently reproachful eyes. And Mrs. Blythe said, in a low voice, "I _hope_ you will be very happy, dear." There was a certain knowledge in her eyes and voice and Una wanted to shriek. Oh, how did Mrs. Blythe _know_?

"Just think – you're Mrs. Blythe now, yourself," whispered Nan, clutching her hand. Una nodded her head like a puppet on a string. Yes – she had always dreamed of being _Mrs. Blythe_.

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There was a little wedding-feast up at Ingleside. Una could not eat a bite though it all looked so good, and they all laughed at her. It was nerves, they said merrily. Una wanted to laugh in their faces for being so stupid. But one could not laugh – not more than one could eat – when one felt so hopeless of heart.

Shirley led her away after they had cut the cake – a beautiful plummy cake made from Susan's own recipe. He seemed to understand that she did not want to dance on the verandah, lit with bright, gay paper lanterns. She wanted to be in the dark where she could take off this mask she had worn all day. He led her out into the night, faint stars beginning to take their places overhead.

They walked in the cool twilight to Red Apple Farm. They did not talk, but as they went the cool sea wind washed the day's troubles from Una's heart. She began to feel lighthearted enough to talk with Shirley about the day. And she wanted to see her dear little house again. She began to feel so excited that she did not notice when Shirley took her hand and tucked it into his own.

They spent their wedding night in the old orchard where they had trysted not so long ago. It was companionable if not romantic. Shirley gave her his wedding gift to her. It was a pretty gold locket, warm with the glow of an age-old thing. He fastened it around her slim throat and it was like a warm small sun against her white skin.

Una would not have minded sitting there under the ghostly, whispering leaves all night. But the cool night air overtook them and Shirley rose reluctantly to his feet and said they should go in.

"Shirley," said Una softly, "Would you like to kiss me?"

"No," he said lightly, but his eyes said something else.

"You may kiss me – if you want to," she said shakily. "It is my wedding gift to _you_." And she flushed and touched her locket. He had given her this pretty trinket and she felt that her gift of a kiss must sound very paltry and presupposing. Una did not know that her lips were to him dearer than all the diamonds and rubies in the world.

She lifted her face to him and Shirley kissed her, putting his arm about her waist again. When he drew back his eyes were twin stars of love and happiness. And Una remembered the last stanza of the poem Walter had once said to her:

_For happiness reacts and grows  
And spreads sweet sunshine as it goes.  
It is Life's garden's sweetest rose,  
"The making someone happy."_

If she could make Shirley happy then perhaps – one day – she could be happy, too.

_**A/N: The poem is "Make Somebody Happy" by Ed Blair. Published in 1914. **_


	9. So Goes Time By

The first months of married life passed so swiftly and breezily that Una knew she must be happy. When one was miserable, time _crawled_. Una had spent nearly five years in such a stifling, unhappy existence. But now that she was happy – the happiest she had been since before the war – each day flew by with an alacrity that startled her.

She loved to wake early in her beloved little room. It was a dear place – it was easy to dream in such a room – with pretty frilled muslin curtains in the windows and an eyelet quilt on the bed. She was so grateful for it and for everything that she spent a few minutes every morning kneeling before her window as the sun came up over the horizon. Una tossed her old alarm-clock out the window. She no longer needed it. She woke easily and with no prompting as soon as the sun's first rays touched her sleeping face. And woke with a smile!

Shirley was fond of giving her pretty, befrilled and beribboned dresses – party dresses of silks and crepes. Una had a deep red dress in a shade called 'heart of rose' and a yellow dress that was sunshine in cloth form. She had an emerald green silk for 'going out' – not that they ever went anywhere. Why would they, when they had such a lovely place to be? She loved to look at these gowns hanging in her wardrobe with sachets of sweet woodruff between them. But her favorite dresses were the no-nonsense ginghams and plaids that she put on to do her housework.

There was always something to be done at Red Apple Farm. Shirley was away all day in the fields and Una spent her solitary time polishing the dear silver candlesticks on the mantle – baking bread as light and fluffy as a cloud – concocting all sorts of wonderful delicacies out of the apples that grew in their own orchard. The first day that she set an apple crunch pie on the supper table was a wonderful one. And Shirley agreed that it was so good it even surpassed Susan's!

Una did not mind being left alone for so much of the day. She did not feel alone. The house seemed full of spirits of happy days gone by – perhaps of days to come? Once she thought she heard the happy patter of feet in the hallway and a child's laugh. It did not frighten her as it once would have, though it made the hair on her neck stand up, and a strange shiver of longing went through her.

She sang as she washed the dishes – pretty yellow plates, like sunshine, with rings of apple blossoms on them. They had been a wedding-present from Nan and Jerry. She used lavender and beeswax to polish the old, well-loved furniture. At times she talked to the house. "How lovely you are!" she told it, and the air around her seemed to get lighter in response.

Gog and Magog kept watch over her as she worked. Mrs. Blythe had given them to her – "to make your house a _home_," she'd said. Una had accepted them lovingly and appreciatively although it was so ridiculous – Red Apple Farm did not need anything to be a home. It couldn't be anything else.

When the old brass clock that marked the changing of the tides rang out five times Shirley would come home. Una had dinner waiting for him. How lovely it was to set dinner on the table in your own dining room! To set lighted candles in the windows and change into the pretty yellow dress. And then after dinner, to go for a ramble on your own land!

Una and Shirley went over every bit of their property together on those twilight evenings and came to know each nook and dell like a friend. They found a cold, crystal spring bubbling up in their spruce grove. The water tasted as fresh and sweet as nectar and ambrosia. They went down to the shore and discovered a little hidden cove in the rocks – just the right size for making a driftwood camp-fire and roasting mussels. Shirley gave Una a night 'off' every now and again and made her supper over a little campfire. He dug for clams and roasted potatoes, and apples for dessert. It was magical to have dinner that way, with the whisper of the sea on the rocks nearby and the old Four Winds light illuminating every thing in regular flashes. It reminded Una of their old Rainbow Valley feasts.

When the weather got cooler and they had been over the fields enough to know each by heart, they would sit out on the broad front porch and just be quiet together. Each one thought their own thoughts and did not feel the need to share every one of them. That is the mark of true friendship. Una thought sometimes that she would like to kiss Shirley on those nights when they sat out together in such a way. He never tried to kiss her and she was a little disappointed. But she contented herself with laying her head on Shirley's shoulder.

And if Walter ever came, unbidden, into Una's mind, she was able for the first time in her life to dismiss him. She did not even feel guilty over it. Surely Walter, dear Walter, would have wanted her to be happy? And she _was_.

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September became October and the crimson of the maples began to mellow into brown. Una thought some of the magic of the year went out when the maples began to lose their fiery leaves. But this year she was too busy preparing a magnificent Thanksgiving feast to notice. They had all their families over to share in the meal with them and it was a golden topaz of an evening. Una was a good-enough cook to rival old, gone-but-beloved Susan and she had such a knack for setting a table! She made candle-holders out of apples and gourds and turned off all the electric lights so that the house would glow. And Una's pies –

"_That_ apple pie is how I like it," said Jerry, and earned himself a look from his wife and a hearty laugh from everyone else. As for Una – she was anointed with the chrism of a true cook that night.

Then it was Hallowe'en and the color and splendor of the maples was replaced with an eerie, goblin-style of magic. Shirley brought up armloads of pumpkins from their very own patch and Una carved jack-o-lanterns for the first time. Once could not have had jack-o-lanterns in the windows of a manse, of course. But this year every window of Red Apple Farm was alight with weird, glowing faces. Una made candied apples and shivered when she noticed that the tips of the spruces looked like pointed witches' hats against the low red moon.

November came – everything was grey and brown and flat. The sea moaned eerily and a frost killed all the pretty, late-blooming things in the garden. Una had always hated November and its ugliness, but this year she did not mind it, for the dreariness outside only heightened the loveliness of her home. What a lovely, warm, cosy, snug home! She kept a driftwood fire going and all the lost color of the year was embodied in the dancing flames. All the afghans she had painstakingly crocheted through her girlhood found a useful place on the sofas at Red Apple. Una loved making up an old-fashioned 'gin jar' for Shirley to take to bed with him so that he was toasty warm. She didn't have to make one for herself. She had a little striped cat to curl up with and that was far cosier than a hundred gin jars. The cat had been a barn cat but decided it would rather be a house cat. Una and Shirley deferred to it, and called it 'The Gray Cat' or 'Grimalkin' with much respect.

The first snow came in December and blanketed the fields with white. Long icicles hung from the eaves all the way to the ground. The only spot of color in the world was the magnificent purple sunsets and the deep green of the spruces against the white. The apple trees shivered under a casing of ice. There was ice down along the shore, with the waves groaning underneath. Wind howled and shrieked and blew a great drift over their little cove. It reminded Una of the stone before the tomb. Shirley had gotten his harvest safely in weeks before and so he and Una spent their days reading to each other before the fire or snow-shoeing through the spruce grove. Shirley bought Una a pair of ice-skates for her birthday and they sometimes tramped to the Glen Pond to skate there. Othertimes they skated by starlight on the Spring Pool while the spruces kept watch.

With all this petting and happiness, Una grew nicely plump. For the first time she had meat on her bones and dimples at her elbows. The purple shadows under her eyes all but disappeared and a faint pink stained her cheeks. She was happy – oh, she was happy! – and Shirley was the best friend a girl could ask for. It sometimes came as a shock to Una that they were really married, and she was Shirley's wife!

And almost before they knew it, it was Christmas.


	10. Una Makes a Friend

A shabby, red-faced, weather-beaten old man came to the door of Red Apple a week out from Christmas, with a grim, unfestive look about his mouth and an incongruously saucy look in his eyes. He was tiny – his head barely came to Una's shoulders – and Una herself was none too tall. His arms were thin and the bones beneath seemed as frail as birds. But the hardened muscles in his neck and shoulders belied his wiry strength. This strange visitor doffed his hat when Una answered the door, and stated his business to her in a gruff voice that was strange, with its wild, out-land twang. He was selling Christmas trees. Would the missus like to buy one?

Already the house had been decorated with ivy and holly – silver tinsel and paper snowflakes at the windows – but a young, slender, sweet-smelling spruce would be just the thing to complete the holiday air. Una had a sudden, fleeting vision of the old Maywater days – the family crowded around a fir tree, festooned with paper garlands and bright, colored trinkets. "What a lovely idea!" she cried. "Won't you help me pick one, Mr. …"

"Zeke Pollock," said the man, sweeping an odd, courtly bow. "Hezekiah to folks that know me."

"Why, there is a Hezekiah Pollock buried in the old, Glen, Methodist grave-yard!" cried Una, remembering the fair, Rainbow Valley days.

"Aye, and 'taint me, missus, but wasn't Hezekiah the First my great-grandfather's uncle? Ain't I named for him? I never seed his grave, though, missus, on account of it being in the Methodist grave-yard. It ain't good to get too close to any Methodist dealings – not to offend, missus."

"We are Presbyterians." Una choked back an unholy urge to laugh. "So there is no offense taken. I think that Douglas fir in your wagon is what I need."

"It's a handsome tree, but it's the most dear," said Mr. Pollock, with the open air of one who at the same time has the need of making money and the conscience to effect a full disclosure. "Mebbe you'd like a spruce sapling instead, missus."

"No," Una assured him, with a sidelong glance at the shabby wagon and the man's patched breeches. His coat was so threadbare it made her heart ache. "Perhaps," she began shyly, when the transaction was ended, "You would help me carry this tree into the house?" Una hated to see any person who looked scrawny or hungry or ill-clothed – there was a pot of chowder bubbling away on the stove and an old coat of Shirley's hanging in the wardrobe. She had every intention of seeing that Mr. Pollock went away with his belly full and his body warm.

There was a flash of white teeth in the old man's creased, nut-brown face as he smiled. "I'd be a sorry gentleman if I did let you carry it by yourself," he chided her. "But missus, ye've over-paid me for this tree. Let me see if I can make the change."

"You may keep it," said Una, but Hezekiah Pollock stood his ground. He counted out the surplus to the last penny and pressed it in her hand.

The tree was set up near the big bay window and Una managed to wheedle Mr. Pollock into taking a bite of sup in the cosy kitchen. It took some finagling but she managed to convince him that she wanted company. And she _did_. Shirley was away in town on a mysterious mission and it _was_ lonely eating one's supper alone. Besides, Una thought, with a glimmer of delight, she liked hearing the wizened old man talk. It seemed as if he would tell her something wonderful – or unholy – or irreverent – if she only let him.

"This clam chowder is terrible good, missus. Sticks to my bones! The last one I knew who could make chowder like this was an old sea-captain I served with when I was a boy. Always meant to get the recipe from him but he was captured and eaten by cannibals before's I ever could."

"How terrible!" cried Una.

"Yup – I s'pose it was – for the cannibals. Old Shea was a tough bite to swallow, I bet. Dash it! I wisht I'd got that recipe! My own Aunt Sarah writ me up hers, but I ain't got no need to have any third rate imitation chowder. This is the real deal."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Una gravely.

"You've done all you can with these Four Winds clams, and that's a fact," said Mr. Pollock, slurping soup, with a good-natured air. "They don't have the flavour of the Pine Shore clams. Next time I'm around these parts I'll bring ye some. How'd you like that?"

"I'd like it very much," smiled Una. "Pine Shore – is that where you live, Mr. Pollock?"

"Call me Hezekiah! Yup – Pine Shore's my home. A dozen of my relatives ast me to live with them but I can't stand any of them so I'm batching it. Got my self a little cabin in the sea cove. It's real homey. But you've got yourself a real home here, missus. I do believe that this is the happiest I've ever seen this little house, missus."

"Oh – have you been here before?" asked Una hungrily. She did so want to know something – anything – about the people who had lived in this house before.

"A dozen times at least. Wasn't I the hired boy for the Margarets, fifty-odd years ago?"

"The Margarets?" Una wondered. "Why, who were they?"

"Why, Margaret Anderson and her daughter Miss Margaret," replied Mr. Pollock, looking longingly at the soup-pot. Una intercepted that look and ladled him another bowl. "Old Mr. Anderson died afore I ever come here. He died when Maggie – that's what we called Miss Margaret – was a baby. Old missus never caterwauled about it, though. When she heard he was kilt she cried for twenty-four hours straight. When she was done she dried her tears and sat up real straight-like and told those folks around her, 'That's the last you shall ever see of me crying over this. I've had all of my tears out at once and henceforth I'll only remember the _good_ times – there were ever so many of them, you see.'"

"She sounds like a wonderful lady." Una's eyes were shining.

"Aye, she was." Mr. Pollock finished off the last of his chowder and sat back with the air of comfortable repose. "Old missus was terrible gentle and kind. I've always sorter had a hard time making ends meet, Miz …Blythe, you say? Relation to the doctor? Oh! Well, Old Missus Anderson wasn't against giving me a bite when she saw I needed it. Real good lady, she was."

"And Miss Margaret – Maggie, I mean?"

"Miss Margaret was a lovely creetur. All gold and soft to look at. She warn't never very strong and she didn't see folks much. This old place is sorter out of the way as far as living goes but the Margarets didn't mind it. They wouldn't move because this is where they'd lived with their father and husband, and to tell the truth, I think they liked being so out of the way. They loved this place, so, missus, and I think they'd like to think of you taking such good care of it. You've kept all their things, I see. Don't they suit this house? Many's the meal I've had at this very table. I feel's though I can see Old Missus at the stove over there, stirring a pot of something tasty. Miss Margaret spent all of her time in the parlor, sitting on that rose-covered settee. The last time I ever saw her before she died, thar she was, with her yaller hair in two long braids down her back and her cheeks all flushed and consumptive looking."

"Oh, _did_ she die?" Una cried.

"Don't all mortals?" asked Mr. Pollock. "Yes – she died – and she died young. But don't look sad, missus. She was happy to the very end. She and old missus were the happiest two mortals I ever met – in most ways. There's a story about Miss Margaret that I'm tempted to tell you. Got love and joy and heartache in it all in one. But – I think I'll save that story for another time."

"Oh, why?" wondered Una.

"Because," Mr. Pollock twisted his hat brim in his hands nervously. "Because I sorter like talking to you, missus. I'm afraid if I say my whole piece now you won't ever have no need to talk to me again. And – I'd like to come back and talk to you again some time. You put me in mind of all sorts of nice things, missus. You're just as kind as old Mrs. Margaret Anderson – and just as pretty as Miss Maggie, in your own way."

"The race of Joseph always knows one another," murmured Una. To Mr. Pollock she said,

"I should be glad to see you again no matter what – you may take my word for it. But if you need the extra insurance I understand. Only – you must promise to come back again some time, Mr. Pollock! Now that I know there is a story about this old place I won't be able to rest until I know what it is."

"I'll come again," Mr. Pollock promised. "It'll be hard to get through once the snows come in earnest. But when spring gets here, I'll come along, presently."

"You had better," said Una. "Oh, Mr. Pollock, it might be terribly rude to ask, but _won't_ you take this old coat? I'd feel so much better if I knew you were warm on your way back to Pine Shore."

"I can't wear no coat as fine as that!" cried Mr. Pollock. "Brass buttons and the works! Who'd give a man a crust of bread he needed with a coat like that? But – missus – if ye've got any old quilts laying about -- it gets terrible frosty in my old cabin a'nights…"

Una went to the garret and returned with some pretty patchwork pieces she had worked in her youth, tied into a neat bundle. In the bundle she had slipped a loaf of bread and a packet of tea. The old man's mouth worked when he saw it and he lifted a brown, work-hardened hand and patted her face, softly, twice.

"Bless your kind heart," he said sincerely, hoisted the bundle on his back, and went out into the night. Shirley passed him on the porch and looked after him in some surprise.

"Una," he wondered, "Have you been visiting with the Wandering Jew? That man looks as though he must be a hundred years old – or more. He has the most interesting face I've ever seen. Is he a man or a gnome? And he's disappeared! Do you often have visitors from fairyland while I'm gone?"

"He hasn't disappeared, he's gone around the bend in the road," Una laughed. "He's Mr. Hezekiah Pollock – and a friend to us. He came up today to sell me a Christmas tree and stayed a while. Can't you smell it, Shirley – that wonderful spruce tang? And there's a pot of chowder on the stove and some fresh bread. Come and have a bite – I've been waiting for you – oh!" For Shirley had caught her in his arms.

"You're nice to come home to," he told her.

A/N: Miss Margaret Anderson is NOT Lost Margaret. I remembered that in my other stories, Cecilia's middle name is Margaret, and I wanted it to mean something. Review!


	11. A Star in the East

Una's first Christmas as the chatelaine of Red Apple Farm was a success. She hardly had a moment to herself through the whole day, so busy was she in wrapping presents, and opening them, and preparing the goose. What spicy, delicious smells wafted throughout the house! How fun it was to throw open her door to the doctor and his wife, to Nan and Jerry, to her parents—to welcome them inside and take their wet things, to feed them and laugh with them and to 'tak' a cup of kindness' together. Dr. Blythe nodded approvingly as he watched his newest daughter-in-law fly around the kitchen, getting plates, ladling cups of hot rum punch into silver cups and passing them out.

"What a wonderful wife Una has turned out to be for our boy," he confided in a whisper to his wife.

Anne Blythe smiled—but it was a faraway sort of smile, and there was something akin to cautious concern in her gray-green eyes. Yes—Una seemed happy, and Shirley seemed happy, too—but there was something lacking between the young couple. She noticed that they never shared the secretive, loving glances that she remembered from her own bridehood, and when Shirley's hand came to rest on Una's shoulder as they sat around the piano and sang carols, it lay there hesitantly—uncertainly—as though he were almost afraid that she would shrug it off. Oh! She could not help being a mother, and worrying over things. Shirley might be a man now, in the eyes of the world, but he would always be her own 'little brown boy,' with his tender heart and his sensitive eyes—eyes that showed so plainly what they felt. Now they blazed with love—but Una's eyes did not mirror her husband's. If she loved, she kept it deeper down—_if_ she truly loved at all.

"Of course she loves him," Anne thought to herself. "I shall take another cup of punch and banish my poor, faulty mother's intuition to the outer reaches of my mind."

In the evening they went to church. Una had always loved going to church at night, when it was lit up by candlelight so that the stained glass windows glittered as richly as jewels. The choir's harmonies hung shimmering in the air and the tall, white candle in the center of the Advent wreath gleamed. When the service was over, she and Shirley lingered in the church a while longer, enjoying the magic, holy, mystic spell of that place.

When they went out into the night, the tips of the firs pointed out the northern lights in the sky. They stopped to watch, and Shirley took that opportunity to reach into his pocket and present Una with her Christmas present.

It was a string of milky pearls—real pearls—nothing but real pearls could have held such a luminous light. Una lifted her hair as Shirley fastened the clasp around her neck. He stepped back to admire the pretty picture she made against the snow-covered firs: all pale and dark with a crescent nimbus at her neck. Una saw him gloat over her and for the first time in many months she felt shy with him.

"They are too nice," she blurted, to hide the sudden flush in her cheeks. "And all I got you, Shirley, was a pair of long underwear!"

"A nice, wifely present," he grinned. "I'm more grateful for those long underwear now than I would be for all the furbelows and fripperies in the world right now. It's cold, dear. Let's make for home."

She saw that she had hurt him without meaning to. They tramped along, Una darting little sidelong glances up at his impassive face. Oh, he _still _thought she might grow to love him! When she knew she never could. She had the sudden feeling that she had committed a grave sin in marrying Shirley. He tried so hard to make her happy, and he would never be happy himself. Because she could not love him. Had she killed all chance of happiness for him? She did not like to think that. Shirley deserved a sweet and happy life. He deserved a loving, laughing wife, and little, curly-haired children sitting upon his knee.

Red Apple Farm was rosy and lighted, waiting for them. Una felt selfish as she looked up at the house. Shirley had given her this house—this home—this new and useful life. And she had given him so little! Suddenly she wanted to give him something—something! As they stood in the circle of light on the porch, she lifted her face and dropped a quick, fleeting kiss upon his lips. How much it cost her to give that kiss! And how much more he wanted from her yet! She could see it in his eyes.

Una felt very tired as she climbed the stairs to her little room.

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They spent the last night of the old year quietly by the hearth, taking turns reading from a curious book that Shirley had found some where—it was full of trivia and remarkable facts that made them laugh together. Una got a supper of cold ham and potatoes and they roasted chestnuts in the fire for dessert.

At midnight, they went to the door together, to welcome the new year in. The funny clock on the mantel chimed twelve times, and the sound hung in the air like a scent. Una could not sleep that night, and so she was awake to hear the clock chime one—and two—and three.

At four o'clock in the morning, she rose from her bed, and went to the window and looked out. The night was as still as a bell that has finished ringing, and clear. There were hundreds—thousands—of stars in the sky overhead. Una leaned her arms on the window sill and watched as one fell, streaking a sparkling path toward the sea. She recalled something she had heard someone say, once, when she had been a child back in Maywater: when a star falls from the sky, _something_ is bound to happen. Whether that 'something' was supposed to be good or bad she did not remember—perhaps it had not been said.

She lingered there at the window until the first faint pink strains of dawn touched the eastern horizon. Then Una roused herself. How lazy she was, sitting up all night! Shirley would be getting up soon, and she must get some sleep if she was to get his breakfast. Una thought that she _could_ sleep now—the restless feeling had gone out of her. She climbed into bed, feeling very tired indeed. All the same, it had been nice to welcome in the dawn of the first day of the new year. She was glad she had done it.

"I wonder what these days ahead will hold for us," was her last thought before she slept.


	12. Familiar Face

Una first saw Raymond West at a dinner dance over-harbour, but she did not mark that moment as the time of their first meeting because she did not really notice him. The place was much too lively for anyone to stand in one place for too long—Una included. She whirled to and fro on Shirley's arm, having so much fun that she hardly knew there was such as person as Raymond West in all the world.

But her ears pricked up when she heard his name mentioned around the manse dinner table several days later. Little Bruce was home from Queens for the half-term break, and the place was crowded with Blythes, who had come up to greet him. There was laughter and chatter coming from all sides, but Una still pricked her ears when she heard the unfamiliar name uttered. _Raymond West_—why, it was a thrilling name. So dashing and romantic, like the hero in a Gothic novel!

"Raymond West?" Una wondered, running over the list of copious Wests she knew in her mind. "Why, I've never heard of him. Why, who on earth is he?"

"My cousin," Rosemary laughed, "But a very distant one. He is come for a flying visit to the Island, and is staying with his father's people over-harbor now. But he will stay with us next month. You must have seen him at the dance last week-end, Una."

Una thought back but could remember only the brief flash of lamplight on black hair.

"His mother and I were good friends in our youth," Mrs. Rev. Meredith continued. "Ray must be—oh, about your age, now, Una, or a little older. I haven't seen him since he was a baby—he was born on the Island, but raised in Montreal."

"Oh, a _city_ boy," sniffed Rilla Ford with disdain—forgetting that she herself had married one!

"Yes," Mrs. Meredith dimpled, "But I think you shall find him of the 'race that knows Joseph' all the same. He is an artist—he takes such lovely photographs. A few were exhibited in a gallery in Charlottetown several months ago."

"A photographer!" A buzz went around the table. Photographs and photographers were a relatively new thing in the Glen even yet—Una herself had only been photographed once in her life. She and Shirley had posed for a wedding portrait before their marriage and Una sometimes stopped during housecleaning to study her own face looking out at her from the frame. How flat-faced and expressionless she thought she looked! She did not like that picture. But she felt curious about this man who took photographs for a living. What an interesting occupation.

Young Gilbert Ford took that opportunity to upend his glass of milk into his lap, and in the flummox that followed, Una forgot totally about the small fact of Raymond West's existence.

Until church that next Sunday. Shirley had come down with a bad cold, and so Una left him with a hot brick and a toddy, concocted from a Susan Baker receipt. She dressed herself and stepped out into the wide, morning world.

The morning was Una's favorite time of day—Sunday morning was her favorite type of morning. The thaw had come and gone and there was the hint of spring on the air. "Every Sunday morning is like that first Easter day all over again," she thought, as she made for the Presbyterians, marveling at the clear pink light hanging over the Shore Road. Una delighted in that thought. It was—why, it was like something Walter might have said.

She had not thought of Walter in so long, and as she did now a twinge of remorse and regret washed over her. She felt for one moment completely sure that Walter would not have forgotten about her so quickly if she had died—in the next, she was miserable. Who knew if Walter had ever thought about her at all? The idea that he had not niggled at the edges of her consciousness during the long walk to the Glen; she arrived at the church feeling breathless and out of sorts.

There was only time enough for her to slip into the pew next to Rilla and her family.

"You're late," Rilla chastised in a whisper. "We've all met the famous Raymond West. My, what a charmer he is. He's sitting over there, up front, with the Timothy Wests, but you'll have to wait until after services to meet him."

Una craned her neck, trying to see above the crowd of people. She could only see Tim West's twin girls, their golden heads shining in the light that came from the stained glass windows. She writhed a little—Rilla's new motherly airs could be infuriating at times. "How nice," Una said mechanically. She opened her hymn book and stared at the words while everyone around her sang.

The elder Rev. Meredith took to the pulpit. Una usually loved to hear her father preach, but today she heard not a word of his sermon. She was lost in thought. She was thinking that it would soon be spring, and the mayflowers would be out in Rainbow Valley. Her thoughts wandered to a black-haired, black-browed, moon-pale boy who had loved those mayflowers. How many springs, Una wondered, would come and go and leave her thinking of Walter?

"I suppose I shall be remembering him all my life," she thought dismally. She looked up at the inscription hanging over the Blythe pew. _Sacred to the memory of Walter Cuthbert Blythe. _

Una wondered if her whole life would not be sacred to his memory, too.

The reverend gave his final blessing and they all stood up to sing again. This time Una caught sight of a head of tousled black curls—a pair of broad shoulders—in the Timothy West pew. A tall, black haired, slender boy—who moved with such sudden and unthinking grace. He turned suddenly, as though feeling her eyes upon him, and Una felt her breath go from her.

Raymond West had a delicate, fine-drawn face. A clear-cut nose and a rich, sensitive mouth. His deep, gray eyes found Una's and held steady the gaze that stretched between them. For a moment she felt as though she were falling—yet at the same time impossibly buoyed up. She felt like she would sink into the ground—or be carried away by the wind. Una pressed her hand to her heart, which fluttered beneath her palm like a caged bird.

"What is it?" whispered Rilla, stricken by the look on her friend's face.

But Una could not speak just then. She could not move. She could not stop looking into a pair of luminous gray eyes, in a milk-white face. A face that was exactly like the one that had been burned onto Una's brain—and her heart. This man! How could this man—a stranger—look so like another she had known, when that other was gone? It was impossible. And yet—they could have been twins. There was no denying it. Raymond West was the spitting image of—of—

"Walter!" Una cried, pierced to the core by memory and shock. Her voice was like a shot—her face was bloodless pale.

The organist faltered, the singers trailed off. All eyes swiveled toward her, and for the second time in her life, Una fainted in church.

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Una was in Rainbow Valley. It was warm—summer. She could feel the hot sun on her skin. Ghostly pictures appeared before her eyes and faded. A red-haired boy with a jolly laugh came very close to her and was gone. Two freckled faces, of sweet little girls, loomed large and then were far away. In her half-conscious state, Una came face to face with her own old self, thin and wan and solemn. There was a black-haired boy just out of reach, standing just across the water. She could not go to him.

Someone slapped her face, and she came back to herself with a gasp. Una opened her eyes with great difficulty. She was staring into his face.

"Stand back," he said to the crowd, and turned to Una. His arms were supporting her shoulders and she leaned into his chest, dazed. Oh, he smelled of sunshine and sweet woodruff. That was right—that was right—wasn't it?

He was here! She felt like crying and laughing at once. He had come back! But no—that would be impossible? Wouldn't it? Her eyes were very large.

"Walter?" she asked piteously.

"You heard her," the man said. "Someone run and fetch her a glass of water."

Oh! It was not him, after all. Una closed her eyes, willing the tears to stay back. Her mind was playing tricks on her. How cruel—what a cruel thing for a mind to do!

But when she opened her eyes again his face had not changed. This man—this Raymond West—was Walter, to the life. Una's eyes sought the familiar faces of her crowd. Why did they not call out, too? Why did they not see it?

"Do you think you can stand?" Walter—_no_. Raymond West—asked her.

"I think so," Una whispered. She let herself be pulled to her feet—how strong he was, this stranger! This stranger whom she felt she knew intimately. She felt unsteady, and nearly swooned again.

"You may lean on me," whispered Raymond West into her ear. The touch of his breath on her skin made her tremble. Una leaned gratefully on his arm, hiding her face against his shoulder.

Rosemary pushed her way through the knot of people. "Una! Darling!" she cried. "Dear, you are white as a sheet. We must get you home."

"I," Una faltered. "I don't know—if—I can walk."

Quick as a flash she was lifted—as though she were weightless, lighter than a feather—and a strong pair of arms were cradling her gently. "Allow me," said Raymond West, and he led the procession out of the church, and down to the manse.

In the house, everyone buzzed around her, and Una was glad for the hustle, the activity. Raymond's eyes would not leave hers. She did not want to be alone with him, because she did not know what she would do or say. Oh—she _did_ want to be alone with him! How could she try to fool herself?

She felt ashamed for a second, but then she did not care.

Everyone scattered. Rosemary and Mrs. Blythe went to the kitchen, to get her some bread and tea. Rilla ran upstairs for a quilt and feather pillow. The doctor went down to Ingleside for some nerve pills. "And I'll go get Shirley!" cried Bruce, happy to be of assistance.

And then Una had her wish. She was alone with _him_. He crossed the room to her and took her hand in his own. She was not shocked by his forwardness. She lifted her face up so that he could see how pretty she was—and for the first time in her life, Una thanked God that she _was_ pretty. How terrible if she should have disgraced him by being ugly.

"You gave me a terrible fright, honey," said Raymond West, with a funny half-smile. Una's hand trembled, and the sapphire on her ring finger caught the sunlight and flung it in her face, as though mocking her.

Oh! That horrible ring—her wedding ring. It felt like a fetter, now, holding her down. What a joke God had played on her! He had taken Walter, and the very moment she had let go of Walter, had tried to make a new life for herself, he had given Walter back to her, in another form. Una knew very certainly then that she had never loved Shirley, and never would. The man she was supposed to love for the rest of her life was standing here, before her, now!

Raymond looked thoughtfully from her face to the ring, and back again. "Una," he asked, his tone low and curious, "Who is Shirley?"

She looked miserably into his face. "He's my husband."

The words tasted like dust in her mouth.


End file.
